


Trophy

by heillos



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Impact Play, M/M, Power Imbalance, Sensation Play, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4722314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heillos/pseuds/heillos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heracles is growing up and the methods Turkey uses to control him become more intimate. Set during the time of Greece under Ottoman rule. Written for kink_bingo's <a href="https://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/tag/2013+mini-challenge:+gift+baskets+3April">April mini-challenge</a>. Prompt: a feast for the senses. [<a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-CV-6brAkkM8/UVkei0wDsSI/AAAAAAAABV8/Vn7b6st3RPM/s800/feast-for-the-senses.jpg">card </a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trophy

**Author's Note:**

> Greece is referred to by his human name, as during that time he doesn't exist as an independent national entity yet. Same thing with Egypt.

The Ottoman Empire didn't raise him well. 

Heracles was never as silent and obedient as Gupta was. Ever since the Ottoman Empire had seized the sons of Hellas and Kemet, the boy who would give him the least of trouble had always been the Egyptian boy. He’d be the one accomplishing his commands at once, the one who would try to please him by chuckling at his Hodja stories, the one to go fetch whatever the Turk told him to. So maybe _he_ should have been the one to deserve to lay in expensive soft silk, flower petals and surrounded by the scent of burning incense, instead of him now. 

But the Turk worked in mysterious ways, Heracles mused, and he always did. When Heracles was a boy, he would see the towering Ottoman Empire return home fresh from war, armor and mask stained with the blood of his enemies and his own, often mercilessly dragging a new conquered nation into his house; powerful and terrible. 

And during other times, more peaceful ones like now, the man would cook something special, carry Heracles on his shoulders, or take him and Gupta for a walk, tell old tales to the two boys and laugh aloud; fatherly and kind. 

He was acting as mysteriously again, by having the Greek's naked form resting in silk sheets, red tulip petals on his disregarded clothes, crimson velvet pillows around him. And yet, he had his hands tied up over his head, rope chafing his wrists in contrast to the all the softness around him.

But he was now old enough to understand. He was at an age old enough to attract attention, and the Turk had gotten even greedier. The Ottoman Empire was now Europe's greatest threat, and he wanted everything. Heracles would have philosophized about power bringing out one's true self, if he was in a different situation. 

"Don't squirm again, and I won't hurt'cha." 

Heracles frowned at the man kneeling straight over him. Unlike him, Ottoman was still dressed from the waist down. 

"You already... have." 

"Ungrateful as usual," Ottoman replied as he spilled a phial of scented oil in his palm. "I'm rewarding ya for yer services, and still ya talk back." 

"Then why the rope?" 

"Because, boy, ya never know what's good for ya." 

That did make him squirm. Now that he's older he knows, everything that Ottoman had told him was lies. The Turk would always strip him out of control and say that it's for his own good, because he should do what he's told, because he should let the empire guide him, _because that's what his mother would want._

He gasped in pained surprise when he felt the sting of a loud slap on his hip. The action riled him up even further, feeling treated like a naughty child. The man was yet again asserting that he's under his power, that no control under this roof. But before he could struggle, Heracles paused, caught off guard by the caress of the large oiled up hand against his reddening skin. 

He could tell from the grin that Ottoman enjoyed the sound of the impact break the silence. As if he was rewarding this lack of struggle, Ottoman crept his hand higher up Heracles' body, caressing from the hip up to his abdomen and the muscles still forming there.

His other hand joined the slow strokes on the tanned skin, spreading more oil over the heaving body, the smell of aromatic oil joining the ones of incense and flowers. Heracles breathed them in each time, intoxicating his mind. That's what he told himself as he relaxed under the massaging fingers. It's the smell and the ropes. 

"Much better," Ottoman muttered, his calloused hands brushing and pressing and squeezing the tense shoulders. "May deserve something sweet." 

The larger man shifted from over the Greek, as he reached out for a bowl of fruit placed next to them. He was chewing on an apple from it, while lying on this bed with cats curling next to him, Heracles remembered as he glanced at the bowl. 

"Have a taste," Ottoman softly commanded, a crescent-shaped slice of mandarin orange pushed against Heracles' lips.

With the way he was holding the piece overhead, it was possible for the Greek to miss while trying to catch it in his mouth, and he struggled against the binds around his wrists in irritation. He considered denying the fruit and spare himself from the humiliation... but that would only make Ottoman angry again and it was just not worth it. Straining his back muscles, he slowly lifted his head up, parting his lips as he reached closer to the tempting slice. 

He could use something sweet, after all. 

Ottoman kept his hand steady. With his mask on, it wasn't evident that he was looking at the sight as if mesmerized by it. His prized possession, in his bed, surrounded by smooth silk and velvet, fitting for anything he values; because he would give Heracles only the best, like the quality of the ropes keeping him still for his own good. 

"So beautiful..." The Greek felt even more uncomfortable once the words registered in his mind. Was that what Ottoman would say to his mother too? Was it _her_ he was actually speaking to?

The fruit tasted bitter.


End file.
